


Blinding in His Brightness

by crackinthecup



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: "Gwynsen" as NK's original name, Armor Kink, Blood and Injury (not graphic), Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:22:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24305080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: A battle has been fought and won, and Dragonslayer Ornstein is looking forward to some well-deserved rest. His lord, however, has other ideas.
Relationships: Lord Gwyn's Firstborn/Dragon Slayer Ornstein, The Nameless King/Dragon Slayer Ornstein
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	Blinding in His Brightness

Muffled shouts and the clatter of discarded weapons filtered into the tent from outside. Ornstein paid them no mind. He shuffled from one end of his tent to another, lighting the candles that clustered on the few available surfaces. Tiredness dragged at him, the kind of bone-deep tiredness that could only result from long hours of fierce combat. His duties had been honourably discharged, the wyverns had for a time been driven back, and now all that was left for him to do was take his armour off and crash into dreamless slumber.

He had just set aside his golden helm and gauntlets when footsteps sounded behind him. There had been no knock upon the post outside the tent, which meant his visitor could only be one person. He stiffened imperceptibly, assuming a more formal stance as he turned around to face his lord.

“The victory is ours,” Gwynsen said, voice echoing in the still air of the tent longer than it should have. His eyes were a rich, glittering shade of gold, still ablaze with the bloodlust of battle, and Ornstein could not quite suppress a shiver as they met his own.

“It is, my lord,” Ornstein replied, respectfully inclining his head. “Your glory on the field of battle was unmatched.”

Gwynsen gave him a crooked grin that was at odds with the blood still smeared through his silver hair. He drew closer to him, breathlessly close, cupping his cheek with fingers that trembled with an emotion Ornstein struggled to place.

“You flatter me, my loyal knight.”

“I thought you liked flattery, my lord.”

Gwynsen laughed, low and breathless, slipping his fingers to the back of Ornstein’s skull, and suddenly Ornstein realised what his lord wanted from him. It would never cease to amaze him how much Gwynsen wanted him; it addled his mind like potent liquor that it was him and him alone that his lord came to in joy and victory, in lust, in sadness, in a million other emotions that raged in his lord’s breast like a storm.

With a smile of his own, Ornstein closed the gap between them, pressing a deep kiss to Gwynsen’s lips. The contact sparked across his tongue like lightning, it seeped into his very blood and bid it boil, and with passion that surprised even himself Ornstein slipped his hands beneath Gwynsen’s tunic to trace the hard planes of muscle underneath.

But where he expected warm, scarred flesh, he found only wetness. He broke away from the kiss, shushing Gwynsen’s groan of protest, and looked down at his fingers stained red with blood.

“You need a healer,” he told Gwynsen, pushing him away with a firm hand on his chest when he made to swoop back into another kiss.

Gwynsen stared at him with the bright-eyed intensity of one intoxicated. “I need you, my love.”

“You are hurt, Gwynsen. This can wait, but your wounds cannot.”

Gwynsen rolled his eyes. The battle had sharpened him, had lit a fire within him that burned away everything except a core of pure, radiant hunger. Ornstein could see the tension in every line of his body.

“You worry too much,” Gwynsen said, pushing forward to kiss Ornstein again, sliding his tongue with his, and this time Ornstein let him; when their lips parted, they were both breathless. “I have taken worse. Now, let me touch you.”

Without waiting for a reply, Gwynsen dropped to his knees, and Ornstein forgot how to breathe. Like so many times before, he found himself giving in to Gwynsen, his earnestness, his passion, his iron will and his brazen confidence.

“If that is your wish, my lord,” Ornstein said, openly staring as Gwynsen nuzzled against his thigh still encased in its golden cuisse. “Give me a moment to remove my armour.”

“Nay,” Gwynsen breathed, reaching beneath the chainmail that drooped down from Ornstein’s waist and undoing the lacings on his breeches. “Keep it on.”

Ornstein swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. His cock sprang free of his breeches, already hard from Gwynsen’s ceaseless little touches. Dipping his head, Gwynsen licked a hot stripe from the base of his length to his tip, and Ornstein bucked his hips, tangling his fingers in his lord’s hair, tight and desperate. Gwynsen took him into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks, moaning around his cock as though their positions were reversed.

“My prince,” Ornstein gasped, he panted, his desire glittering like crushed diamonds in his veins. “My prince, you –”

But he did not know what to say. He wondered if love was always like this: yearning that made him ache, that made him tremble at the mere brush of Gwynsen’s skin against his own; a sense of completeness so warm and so lulling that he had no name for it. Gwynsen was blinding in his brightness, infuriatingly stubborn, with a softness to him that only Ornstein was ever allowed to see; he was perfect.

The wet slide of Gwynsen’s lips over his cock undid him. Ornstein rocked his hips against his lord, his lover, and Gwynsen took him down to the hilt, fumbling with the laces on his own breeches to take himself in hand.

“You – _ah_ – you don’t need to do that, love,” Ornstein stammered between moans. “You can have me after this, my mouth, my body, anything –”

But Gwynsen made a noise of disapproval, stroking his tongue in maddening little motions up the underside of his cock, and Ornstein lost his train of thought.

Neither of them could last very long, not with bloodlust burning bright and passion burning brighter still. Ornstein came first, head tipping back in bliss, biting his lip to silence a scream.

Gwynsen released his softening cock. He swallowed what he could, letting the rest smear over his lips. Pressing his cheek to Ornstein’s armoured thigh, he started stroking himself all the quicker, hips swaying with every pass of his fingers.

Ornstein cradled him close with a hand fitted to the back of his skull, listening to Gwynsen chanting his name like a prayer, delighting in every hitch of his breath as he spiralled closer and closer to his peak. Gwynsen came with a shout, half-muffled against Ornstein’s armour. They stayed like that for long minutes, bathed in the red light of the candles, sated.

Ornstein was the first to recover. He took Gwynsen’s face in his hands, tilting his head upwards, and the mere sight of his lord – flushed cheeks and lips coated with his seed – left Ornstein lightheaded.

“You are a storm, my prince, my love,” he told him, and such tenderness spilled through him that he feared he might drown in it. 

Gwynsen seemed amused by his whimsy. “A storm, you say? Do you mean that I sweep you off your feet, my dear Ornstein? That you find it impossible to deny me?”

“I know not what I mean,” Ornstein said, shaking his head. He had never had the words for this softness, this love, this loyalty that seemed to have seeped into the very fabric of his being, beyond duty, beyond oaths; he deflected, like he usually did. “You are a bad influence, lord. You make my mouth run without any input from my brain.”

Gwynsen’s laughter was bright and clear, his mood softened, his fire momentarily dimmed to a placid glow. He reached for Ornstein’s hand, and Ornstein pulled him to his feet.

“Then that must make you a good influence, my knight. I shall go seek the healers, if only to give you some peace of mind.”

Raising Ornstein’s hand to his lips, he pressed a lingering kiss to his knuckles. Then, without another word, Gwynsen swept from the tent as abruptly as he had come. Ornstein stared after him, thinking with a quiet sense of wonder about his lord, about this lovely thing that they shared amid the clash of empires.


End file.
